


Through the eyes of another

by Lissellone



Series: The secrets of our misbegotten youth [1]
Category: Ylvis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angry Sex, F/M, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Multi, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Shameless Smut, Sibling Incest, Verbal Abuse, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 17:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7766794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lissellone/pseuds/Lissellone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ylvis: Brothers, partners, more - as seen by those around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mona Lisa

“Vegard,” she whimpers, twisting and restless where she is caught, held down, bare skin and soft sheets merging in a tangled mess.

Her body gleams under a fine sheen of perspiration, shivering fractures of the cold gleam of the street lamps slotting in through the blinds to paint the room in shadow and light. Vegard itches to lap at those droplets, to taste the difference between the damp at her temples and that of the shallow valley at the small of her back.

However, the scene in front of him holds him intent, still. His brother’s dark blond waves are artfully tucked behind one ear as he bends forward over her; slowly, deliberately running the tiny spikes of a warternberg wheel over delicate patches of skin. His knee just nudges at the end of the long, thin vibe buzzing industriously between her legs, making her cry out in small, choked sounds that are barely more than puffs of breath. Vegard supposes it is hardly surprising, considering they have kept her like that for nigh on three hours now.

Bård’s profile is like marble, partisan and perfect and limmed by the light behind him, unmoved. He moves with almost clinical precision, deciding where to touch and how much pressure to apply to keep her at that all-consuming edge of destruction for as long as possible. It makes Vegard take a deep breath, a quiet inhale and slow exhale of air between his lips, as ever unprepared for the depth of the ache watching his brother brings to his chest.

Vegard reaches for his glass and swallows down a burning mouthful that does nothing to quench the burning in his heart.

“Bård,” he moves to stand beside his brother, nudging him with the glass he holds out.

“Drink.”

“It's not a good idea to mix alcohol and implements, Vegard, you know better than that,” Bård doesn't lift his eyes away from that contact of skin and steel, continuing his slow circuit of her back.

“I think that’s enough implements for today, don't you? Let's put her out of her misery.”

The girl squirms a little more and cries, calling for him even though it is Bård who holds her suspended in her torment. She is reaching breaking point. They always cry to him for comfort, to _feel_ , any connection they can beg from the Ylvisåker brothers usually comes from him. Yet so often it is Bård they scream for in the crowds, that they swoon over. He doesn't blame them. But, unlike the girls, Vegard is blessed.

Bård looks up at him with a grin that shows too many teeth, predatory and lovely. He reaches for the glass and downs the whiskey in a long swallow, eyes intent on Vegard’s shadow in the darkness.

Deliberately, Bård lets the glass drop onto the thick carpet at the same time he shoves the vibrator firmly up just so. The girl lets out a desperate shriek and bursts out sobbing as the pressure against that perfect spot sends her into contractions so powerful she curls up, spasming against the straps that hold her down.

Vegard drops to his knees, wrapping his arms firmly around Bård’s hips as he takes him into his mouth in one quick movement, the tip of Bård’s cock already nudging the back of his throat as he tries to swallow. It is not the time for a long, drawn out session. His brother is wiry and hard in his arms, muscles standing out tense and perfect. Vegard hollows his cheeks and sucks, hard and deep. He can feel the cresting tide in Bård as he throws his head back, tendons standing out in his neck as he bites his fist and his other hand finds a hold in Vegard's curls, clutching him almost desperately.

Vegard hums around him, trying not to choke as Bård bucks in his arms and comes, a bitter gush of fluid he swallows as Bård clutches at him like a lifeline.

His eyes are soft, adoring in the way Vegard can never get enough of, whether in the bright lights of the stage with the crowd screaming their names or on secret nights like this one, steaming up the windows with their body heat and the lush cries of a girl in the background as Vegard takes in his very essence unto himself.

There is a long moment of silent eye contact and Bård is softening before Vegard pulls off him with a soft pop, licking him clean.

The girl has devolved into whimpers, over-sensitive and squirming away from the vibrator as desperately as she had tried to get more of it just minutes ago. Vegard takes off the blindfold and calms her with a firm hand, bending to taste that dewy skin as he wanted to earlier. She is soft and damp and sweet, oh so very sweetly yielding to him.

He unstraps her as he kisses her, aware of Bård’s eyes, hot on his back. Bård has shifted to the right, clearing the way for them so Vegard can roll her onto her back, his fingers finding her drenched folds and drawing forth the vibe to set to one side, the side where Bård is.

She cries his name softly into his chest, _Vegard Vegard Vegard_ over and over and little pleas as she clutches at his back, nails digging into his skin until he hisses. Oh, such exquisite pain.

He strokes her until she's crying again, little hiccuping sobs and a tangle of soft limbs and flesh around him, surrounding him with her scent that rises and rises until he's quite dizzy with the headiness of it, the wickedness that is Bård’s sly fingers teasing at his testes. With a sigh, he sinks into her soft warmth, rocking inside her until they both come with choked cries and then slump together, exhausted.

Bård draws the covers over them both and settles hard into Vegard's right side, a hot bony presence whose long limbs curl around Vegard with a soft sigh of his own.

Just before his eyes droop in sleep, it occurs to Vegard that if they were to die like this, he has no regrets.


	2. On the outside looking in [Ryssa]

Bård can't remember a time without Vegard.

Yes, they had been separated for a long year, when his older brother had been conscripted into the Home Guard, but apart from that they had rarely, if ever, been apart.

One of his first memories is of Vegard's head of unruly curls and making grabby hands at it. He remembers a wide smile, not so different from the one he wears so often now, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose which have long since faded away and evened out into his beautiful, darkly golden skin tone. Bård may tease him about his “Turkish heritage” at every given opportunity, but he remembers running his hands over Vegard's skin obsessively, rubbing skin to skin over and over again, hoping it would darken his fairness, that Vegard would leave his stain on his skin.

To this day when they are asleep alone together, Bård still runs his hands up and down Vegard's sides habitually, seeking out that touch, desiring nothing more than to merge, to meld, and mix so thoroughly that it becomes impossible to separate one brother from the other.

* * *

Ryssa doesn't kid herself that she's the one, be it first, last or only. She knows better than that. She doesn't even know if this will last out the coming year. But Ryssa does know one thing: she may be the one closest to understanding the true relationship between Bård and Vegard, if only because she has lasted the longest so far.

There's no great secret as to how. She doesn't make demands, she doesn't fool herself into making more of this than it is, she doesn't ask uncomfortable questions, and she most certainly doesn't expect to be treated like this is a long term relationship. She enjoys their company, no doubt. She enjoys the sex, also without a doubt. But she takes it as it is. Transient. Temporary.

The only people meant for each other here are the Ylvisåker brothers, and she doesn't know if it is a blessing or a curse they were born from the same womb.

* * * 

Bård gets impatient, sometimes.

He doesn't have Vegard's need for the opposite sex. He doesn't need anyone but Vegard. Sure, it is fun to play with the girls they bring home at times, and he pursues mastery of that craft to answer his curiosity in the same, single-minded manner he does any skill he picks up for their show. With practice, study, and more practice, and a good dash of creativity thrown in.

They have grown up without needing anyone else but each other, and he is sure that is the way it will remain until the end of their days.

But Vegard, ah, Vegard has a soft spot for women. And oh, how they love him. They are attracted to his kind, warm brown eyes and steady personality. They fawn over his soulful voice and that faux shyness that is very much less real than the nerdiness. If you ever run a quiz, and yes, it has been done before, it is a 90 per cent vote that the women will want to sleep with Bård, but Vegard is the one they want to take home to mama and have babies with.

Vegard wants to have daughters someday, and he likes to have a woman around to coddle and wrap in cotton swaddling, someone he can take care of, Bård supposes. It's a one-dimensional relationship, the one Vegard seeks with his women. Vegard would say our woman, but they are really more his pets than theirs.

Whereas with Vegard and Bård himself, it's all about the push and pull. They protect each other, fight with each other, tease and take and love and hate. It is all about the tooth and nail, fierce, burning passions that cast down and exalt, that is equally about the pain as it is the joy. It is through their suffering that they transcend, and that is why, he is sure, they were born as siblings instead of meeting as lovers. They are the elemental perpetual forces, with an equal push and pull that transmutes into movement, eternal.

How can that ever compare with the complete and utter dullness that are regular relationships, Bård cannot imagine.

But if it makes Vegard happy, to have someone to spoil and smother, Bård will do anything to maintain that status quo. At least the girl Vegard is keeping right now is fairly tolerable, even though she does have a penchant for crying at stupid movies, and well, at the drop of a hat really. What a bleeding heart.

This is the only reason he is still abed on a Tuesday afternoon, completely dying of boredom whilst they gaze into each other's eyes and whisper meaningless sounds at each other.

Yes, Bård will put up with a lot for Vegard, God bless him.

* * *

Sometimes, Ryssa doesn't know if it is Bård’s coldness or Vegard’s warmth that is more cruel.

In her lonelier moments, she has imagined more, despite her better judgment. A world so damn wide and you'd imagine she could find a better partner than one whose entire world revolves around his brother. She hasn't. And so she stays, a playmate. She thinks of it as a temporary stop-off on her journey, and to be honest, it's a pretty damn luxurious stop.

When she cries, Vegard is all concerned, protective warmth, cocooning her in his arms under the covers. He murmurs comforting nonsense into her hair, pressing kisses to her head, and cradles her until she calms. She thinks he enjoys it, being needed, and he's honestly really good at it. His broad chest is a comforting wall of warmth, sturdy limbs solid around her.

She likes to stroke the downy, silky dark hairs of his chest, around his nipples, letting it run through her fingers. He is built so differently from sylph-like, fashionable Bård, his thighs like young tree trunks, smooth and muscled under questing fingers. He feels like home and hearth, he smells like pine sap and sticky toffee and woodsmoke. Those luxuriant dark curls and milk coffee skin are magnets for her fingers; there are lazy days, rare days, when he will stay with her all day and she can caress him for as long as he can be patient.

Ryssa thinks it's because he knows, deep down, and it is his own way of giving her what he can.

And oh god, the sex. Ryssa would almost, almost stay for that alone, and give up looking for more than what she has right here. But deep down inside, Ryssa is a romantic and clings on to her hope that she will find someone who is worthy of becoming the central point of her universe. It's that naïveté that thinks that love can and should transcend all boundaries which makes her kindly inclined to turn a blind eye to what really goes on here. It's that which Vegard senses in her, which is why she has gotten closer to the heart of them than any who have come before, or after.

She thinks of them, sometimes, as lovers who reincarnate, life after lifetime, in different times and with different connections that always come back to orbit around each other.

 


	3. There's only you [Peony]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Vegard is not very nice.  
> Tags and Rating have been changed to reflect this.

The tension in the room is palpable; rising like a knife’s edge, violence like static in the air, the tense moment before lightning tears it apart. He takes a step forward, she stumbles three back.

The moment her back hits the wall, she knows she has taken the wrong path. His hands slam into the wall on either side of her, caging her in. Hands she had appreciated for their strength, their solidity on her skin; hands with the tensile strength of a cat’s paw, solid and sleek under skin and sinew and bone. Hands that had been inside her, coaxing shivers and tremors and spine-curling pleasure. Hands that are now humming with barely restrained violence.

His face is close to hers, so close his breath shivers her skin. She has never seen this side of him before; he is the gentle one, the self-effacing one, the brother who takes the supporting role. His beautiful eyes are always alight with laughter, his lips curled in a smile. Now, he cuts a daunting figure, curls damp and glistening, heat rising from the bare skin around his black undershirt. When he speaks, his voice is like the sharpest shards of ice, cold as the icicles forming on the eaves outside.

“Why don’t you tell me what it is that you’re really after, Peony.”

It is too late now for half measures. She steels herself.

“I told you, Vegard. I want a real relationship not this charade, this… _game_ we play with your brother.”

He just looks at her, eyes hard and cold and flat. She feels distantly, that she’s disappointed him somehow.

“I know you want me, Vegard. We could be good together,” her voice is cajoling now, flirty even. She lets her lashes flutter down, looking upwards at him in what would have been a becoming manner even ten minutes earlier. “We _are_ good together. You just need to let Bård go, he’s an adult, he can’t keep tagging along with his big brother for everything. It’s just wrong.”

He leans forward now, lets his breath ghost along the tender curve of her ear. “Wrong?”

Vegard moves further into her personal space, watching her, mere millimetres from her lips, those lovely, fickle, traitorous lips. He lets the bridge of his nose nudge against hers, a familiar movement televising intent, a warped mimicry of the moment just before a kiss. She recoils just a little, the body’s sense much sharper than the mind, but comes back, breathless. Her lips part for his as he lets the moment stretch, anticipatory. Vegard waits until she lifts up on her toes, reaching for him, before he speaks.

“Did you think it was so wrong when you were moaning like a bitch in heat, begging him to plug your mouth with his cock even whilst I had mine up your arse?”

It was said in such an even tone that she didn’t register the words as they hung, ugly and stark in the air, until many moments later. She blinks, stunned. Vegard’s eyes were completely black.

Say what you like about Peony, but the woman had a spine. She stiffened it now and spat back in his face, “He’s unnatural! No one could play with a woman and be so uninvolved in the process. The way he carries on is to prevent you from getting serious with anyone else. He’s jealous and too dependent on you, and the way he looks at you sometimes - ”

She muffles a squeal when his fist crunches into the plaster right next to her ear. Her eyes, when she looks up at him, are fearful and wide. At that moment Vegard, who had never even dreamt of lifting his hand to a woman, was having trouble holding himself back from putting his hands around her throat.

Her body sensed it, the way small animals sense danger, flinching away and hunching inwards, making itself seem smaller. The mind, however - the mind ignored that instinct for survival. The mind lets anger overwhelm good sense.

“You know I’m right! You know how he looks at you, how he watches us. He wants you! He’s a fag, and ince- ”

His lips descend on hers with shattering violence. Teeth clash, and he is drawing all the air out of her lungs, one hand immobilising her jaw. Her lips sting but she draws him in. As long as he wants her, desires her, she will win out against Bård. She will erase Bård from his place in between them, Bård who never gave her the time of day until Vegard walked into the room.

She welcomes Vegard’s anger, stokes it. It is the anger of a man who knows the truth, but does not want to face it. He needs to release it, he needs to be freed of Bård’s clutches. The cleansing fire of anger will raze him down and release his desire for her.

She arches against him, rolling her hips upwards, encouraging. Triumphant, when Vegard tears his mouth away to slip his hand under her short skirt, panting as he pushes into her. She gasps, grits her teeth when he rubs her clit with his thumb, two fingers stabbing in and out. Behind closed eyes, confused flickers of Bård’s pretty blond hair and that unattainable, proud smile dance against her eyelids.

Peony comes with a cry.

She slumps, boneless and pleased, against the wall behind her. When she opens her eyes, Vegard is stripping off his shirt and sweats, and she opens her arms to him. He sweeps her up into his arms and carries her off to the bedroom where he (minus Bård) proceeds to spend the next two hours making her scream his name.

One could do much worse than make Vegard angry, she thinks hazily as she falls asleep. Who knew the gentle older brother had all that flame in him.

* * *

When Peony wakes up the next morning, Vegard is standing beside the bed, eyes cool. She smiles, stretches lazily, seductively, relishing the soreness in her body. Peony reaches out for an embrace, only for Vegard to drop her clothes on her head.

“What the fuck, Vegard!”

“I think it’s time for you to leave.”

“Are you crazy?!?”

“I took the liberty of packing up the things you’ve left around as well,” he gestures towards a neatly packed box perched on the chest of drawers.

Her eyes narrow. “Is this because of what I said about Bård last night?”

“Bravo. Your intelligence is astounding.”

“C’mon, Vegard,” her voice is soft now, cajoling. “Didn’t we put this behind us last night? It’s okay, we can be together without him. It can be all like last night from now on, just like that, making love to each other, just us.”

“If you mean would I like a repeat of that fucking mess, the answer is no.”

Her face is furious, and he relishes it at this moment. Later there will be regret, some pain even, over the person she made him become, but right now, there is only grim satisfaction.

She deserves it, and her next words only cement that.

“I’ll ruin you. I’ll ruin _him_. Let’s see what kind of career you can have when I tell the world you don’t just share your women, but much worse, how it’s just a front for how you two fuck each other!”

“You know we don’t do that,” Vegard says calmly, putting his hands in his pockets. He looks down at her in cool distaste.

“That won’t matter when your sobbing ex-girlfriend leaks it to the press, so horrified by catching you in the act that she’s distraught,” she sneers. “Or do you think they’ll call you to fact check before running the story on the seven o’clock news? Ylvis will never live to see another day.”

“Ah, but will you?”

“Just watch me!”

He smiles at her, almost kindly. Then he pulls out his phone and she will never think of Vegard as kind again.

He has pictures. Terrible pictures, pictures of her last night, lying on her front, holding herself up and open for him as he writes S-L-U-T and W-H-O-R-E and C-U-M-B-U-C-K-E-T on her skin with her own lipstick. Pictures of her, eyes closed and mouth open as he jerks off onto her face. There’s even a video, and she can hear herself panting, moaning, telling him she loves it, loves all the dirty things he’s doing to her. How she wants him to take her in the middle of a public street, wants him to invite everyone else to join in. There’s words she doesn’t even remember saying in the heat of the moment, when he had wound her up so much she was fucking delirious.

She actually leaps for him, for the phone, which he lets her shatter and break.

“But Peony, did you really think I would bring the only copy of those in here? You haven’t even looked at the other pictures, or read the SMS exchange between you and I about how you are so pissed off that Bård won’t look at you that you threaten to tell the press a lie about how we have an incestuous relationship.”

This time there’s more screaming, only his name is preceded and superseded by epithets.

* * *

Later when Bård asks where his girlfriend has gone, Vegard just tells him they broke up.

His golden brother is the most important person to him in the whole world, and Vegard will never tell Bård how much it cost him to keep it that way.

It is a long time before Vegard lets another woman get close to them again.


	4. The sadness in your eyes [Sara]

She shivers, trembling, lost; no longer sure what she is begging him for.

He had trailed the tips of his fingers across every inch of skin, mapping her body in barely there touches for hours, making her ache, making her writhe. Her entire being is so sensitive by now that the lightest touch is both unbearable and exquisite, and she cannot decide if she needs it to stop or if he should never stop touching her ever again.

An age passes, or no time at all. He sits up, the different distribution of weight moving her on the bed. When his hands leave her she can’t hold back a sob. The surcease is like a sea creature being torn away from the tide, left exposed and dry upon the sand to die. She _aches_. She will die if he leaves her now. _Please, please, please_.

“Look at me, Sara. Sara,” his voice is firm, commanding.

His arms gather her up, rearranging limp limbs, settling her astride him. Her body won’t hold her up, but he supports her with his own, curving a hand around the nape of her neck. Her eyes are blind, blind and lost to her, but he cups that hand against the base of her skull and coaxes her to tilt her head up, up, until all she can see are his eyes. Dark and deep, a still pool, they hold her caught, stunned, a deer frozen in the headlights.

Vegard slips a hand between them, slowly, inexorably, watching her anticipate, tense and shudder. When he touches her there, her eyes almost roll back in her head. He presses his forehead against hers, refusing to let her go, holding her present. He wants her to feel everything, watches her tremble, her eyes try to slide shut to block out the overwhelming sensory load, but unable to leave the intensity of his gaze. He will not let her go where he cannot follow.

She is damp against him, slick and dewed and _divine_. Her hips rock helplessly against his, he can feel her heat, lets himself slide between her folds so she is grinding down on him, along him.

It is incapacitating, intolerable; pleasure that licks up her spine like lightning and leaves her breathless, helpless, at his mercy. It is a brand: burning, burning, burning. She is light. She is fire. She is lost.

* * *

The beauty of it is that not all of their joining is characterised by heady, bedroom eyes and pleasures so intense they bring her to the brink of pain. Vegard is, at the very heart of him, a creature of joy. Happiness irradiates out from his skin in a golden aura, gives his dark eyes that warm gleam that so calls to her soul; she who has been serious, boring and staid all of her days.

Somehow, Vegard manages to be responsible and stable without neglecting joy. He projects a natural feeling of safety she desires, needs, more so than other older men closer to her age. He is a first son, an older brother, a soldier, a pilot, a good man. He is serious when he speaks to her, steady and kind. What promises he makes, he always keeps, and she can count on him to be there when she needs him.

Yet, he is also a man with the ready smile of a naughty child, a laugh, and jokes that will brighten up any day. Sara has never met a man who can bring so much laughter into the bedroom and into life. The pranks he and the boys from his Guard platoon play on each other on free nights out… she often finds herself laughing as she never has, laughing until her stomach aches with it; lets him pounce on her and roll her over and pet her until she stops. She has never smiled so much or so widely before.

Vegard is not joyful merely because he is too young to have encountered sorrow; he is happy in spite of it. He has told her some of his childhood, of moving around so often he found it difficult to make connections with anyone. He has skipped over terror and fascination in the African deserts; in the midst of war and strife the children still played. Sara envies him the ability to channel suffering into something deeper, to appreciate life in spite of its foibles and still see the good.

There is a little hidden kernel of sadness that shadows him, deepens him, that will occasionally reveal itself in a brief look or expression, in liquid eyes when he daydreams, in the corner of his smile. Sometimes, on his days off, she is with him to see the uncharacteristic mournfulness that lies lightly upon him in the early mornings. As he wakes, he appears to be seeking something that never comes.

* * *

One wintry, sunny afternoon when the air is so sharp it could cut glass, he barges into the back of the bar and swings her up into a whirling embrace, dropping a haphazard peck on her cheek. Sara drops the tray she was polishing with a little shriek, but she flings her arms around his neck in the very next moment and holds him close.

“I have a free afternoon, hours until I have to get back to the base,” he whispers into her ear. “Do you have an idea of how we could while away those hours?”

He frowns when he sets her back down on her feet and chafes her hands gently. “Preferably somewhere much warmer than here - your fingers are freezing.”

“Well, you have the whole afternoon to warm me up then,” she smiles and kisses him, feeling the scrape of stubble rough against her cheeks.

She draws him up the stairs behind her, throwing open the door to her room and the wintry, thin sunlight blooms around her like a flower. The bed is frosty, so cold the sheets are stiff, but Sara just shakes her head, drags the pillows off and opens the large airing cupboards that line the wall of her room and drops them on the bottom on a pile of neatly folded blankets.

Vegard is no help at all, glued to her side and generally getting in the way, hands roving and tickling and tweaking. Giggling and shivering, Sara stands on tiptoe to pull a few more blankets from the top shelf to throw onto the pile of softness they have formed on the bottom of the cupboard. She draws him in behind her on hands and knees into the plush nest and slumps into its embrace with a sigh. When they pull the door shut but for a crack, it is warmer, very much so. For a while they are nothing more than murmured endearments, wandering hands and soft kisses, cradled in the embrace of spare pillows and dry, soft linen.

His dark curls are soft and freshly washed, free of product and therefore fuzzy and springy in the best possible way. She delights in letting her fingers wander, caressing his scalp with firm strokes in the way he likes best until he arches his back like a cat, pushing closer to her. Vegard noses his way up her collarbone, trailing kisses and nips until he reaches a particularly sensitive spot high on the back of her neck, pausing to lavish it with attention that has her breathing hard in moments.

They are closed away in their own little world, light outlining the edges of the door, just enough to illuminate flashes of skin and hair and beautiful curves. His hands, his beautiful musician’s hands come up to hold her still as his lips ravage hers, stealing breath and thought both. Sara adores them, so large that his fingers meet at the back of her head, cradling her cheeks, stroking with his thumbs. She is caught, and she has nowhere else she’d rather be at this moment.

He rolls a little until he rises over her, kneeling over her body, contorting himself to fit into the space. When he runs those clever fingers along her ribs, she almost knees him in the groin but he manages to trap her legs under one hewn thigh, muffling laughter. “Hold your claws, kitten,” he murmurs against her skin. Holding her down like that, he strips the both of them methodically, kisses and gasps and fingers all entwined with revealing inch after inch of tempting creamy skin. He tickles her until she is breathless with laughter, flushed and dazed and mad for him, stomach muscles rippling from trying to be quiet.

The downy hairs of his chest are ticklish and pleasant against her skin. She runs her hands over him, again and again, from his hair to the back of his neck, gliding down to press against his lower back, urging him to move against her in delicious friction. He obliges, rubbing skin against skin, and by the time he moves downwards to catch a plump nipple between his lips, she is arching against him, shaky fingers coaxing, trying to guide him to fit himself into her.

He chuckles into her skin, catching her hands and holding them captive above her, before continuing to suckle easily, as if there was time eternal. His cock is full and hot against her thigh and she wants it with a hunger that is sharp and primal.

One hand leaves its fellow jailor to come down and trail lazy circles around her sex, fingers exploring, rubbing her own slickness into her skin. When he slides his index finger into her body, she cries out so sharply he has to silence her with his mouth, opening her lips with his, preventing her from gritting her teeth with the strength of her want. He goes slowly, so slowly, drawing it out so she can feel every ridge, every centimetre. He is only up to the second knuckle and already he is reaching places inside her that she never could by herself. When he crooks another finger and snugs it into her beside the first she is whimpering helplessly, trembling and trying to buck under the weight of his body.

He has to free her hands to bring his hand down to cover her mouth, and he holds her down like that as he starts to move his fingers in her, stretching her, rubbing against her slick inner walls and crooking his fingers to make her cry out. When he brings his thumb up to trace tiny circles around that delicate bud, she bucks wildly, over sensitive and wanting, whining against his hand. Sara retaliates by taking him in hand and squeezing gently, relishing his own muffled groan, flickering her tongue out to caress his palm, to lave and suck and kiss it until shaking, he releases her.

She pushes him away from her, whimpering as his fingers leave her reluctantly, wet and wanting. “Let me,” she breathes, and curls up so she can take his cock in her mouth. Vegard bites down on his hand as she envelops him, hot and skilled and so eager. The delicate skin of the head is satiny and slides on her tongue as she licks him, curling her tongue around his length as she applies gentle suction. His muscles are straining to hold still and not choke her with his cock, but she cups his buttocks in her hands and pulls him close. He is bent over her, inches away from the shelf atop them both, and therefore has very little control when she starts bobbing her head in his lap as best as she can in the tight space. Vegard growls and marks her back with his teeth when he finally gives in and lets her bring him to a shuddering, quiet climax cradled in her mouth.

“You’re going to be so good for me, aren't you?” he whispers into the pale dark, breathing heavily, fingers already starting to wander as he recovers.

A shudder of pleasure runs through her bones. Sara knows this may not last more than the year the conscripts spend at the base, but ah, how she _hopes_.

 

 


End file.
